


in the heat of moments with your heart playing up cold

by ariastarke



Series: never mind, said your open arms [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, a very strange au, but not legitimitized, imagine gendry raised in winterfell as a recognized bastard of robert baratheon, talks of an engagement between gendry and sansa, that is taken seriously by literally no one, until he eventually is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:02:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23120677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariastarke/pseuds/ariastarke
Summary: "Did you hear?" Arya asked, footsteps light on the floor as she walked into the forge."About my own legitimization?" Gendry replied, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, figured it would be inappropriate if I were unaware, wouldn't it? Does m'lady have any objections?""About the engagement," Arya clarified, not chastising him for calling her a lady, for once. Her heart just wasn't in it today."Engagement?" Gendry's eyes flickered over to her, wider than they had been a second ago, a panicked sort of look coming over his face. Arya flinched away from that look; he probably thought he meant an engagement toher."Yes," she said. "To Sansa."
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Series: never mind, said your open arms [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687702
Comments: 47
Kudos: 357
Collections: Still Rowing: A Gendrya Centric Fanfic Collection





	in the heat of moments with your heart playing up cold

**Author's Note:**

> Take a shot every time Arya avoids meeting someone else's eyes. Double it if it's Gendry she avoids looking at.
> 
> Anyway, this is set in a weird sort of alternate universe where Robert Baratheon is still king, but Gendry was instead a product of Robert and a noble Northern lady, so he was forced to claim him as his bastard and was raised in Winterfell (think Edric Storm, but Northern). And once Gendry is announced to be legitimized, talks of an engagement between him and Sansa arise, much to the disappointment of, well...everyone, because who thinks that would be a good match when Arya is _right there_?

The day Gendry Waters is brought to Winterfell, Arya is only four years old and she's too young to understand what is happening. Years later, she would eventually ask him, and he'd tell her that even though he was nine years old, he didn't exactly grasp the situation himself, either.

She remembers it the way most children remember their childhood—brief snapshots that bleed into each other, unable to discern one day from the next when they grow up. Catelyn had brushed her hair back from her face and Arya had flinched away from the harsh bristles, but that had been such a common occurrence it wasn't possible for that specific time to stand out to Arya the same way she didn't remember the way Ned had picked her up onto his lap because he did it so often. There were some things, though. Some things that stuck out in the strange way certain memories often do, the ones that never leave you despite not being very important.

Arya recalled the way a distant third cousin of the Umber family was brought to Winterfell's gates, clutching Gendry's hand in hers as he shivered under the significantly colder weather that differed so greatly from Kings Landing. Ned had set her down and knelt in front of Gendry, who stared back at him with such a hard gaze in his blue eyes. Arya didn't remember much of _that_ , because she didn't hear anything her father said to him, but she remembered when he stood up and gave the Umber girl a sad look.

"You'll make a fine match, I'm sure of this. King Robert will make sure of it," he said.

Arya had been too young to understand, but the look that passed over the Umber girl's face would eventually register with her as shame, embarrassment, and most of all, fear.

The girl—Tara, Arya later found out—gave Gendry a lost sort of look, as if she wanted to bring him back to her and never let him go. But even as her fists clenched together at her side, she didn't move anymore. Young as she was, Arya was still known for being as perceptive as a four-year-old could manage, and she caught the way Tara nodded stiffly at her father. That cold, emotionless nod had stuck with her for so long because she remembered wanting to tell her to treat her father with the same love and adoration he received from Arya herself, exactly as Ned Stark deserved.

It wasn't a particularly eventful occasion for Arya, barely older than a toddler at the time, but she would come to understand just how important that day would become to her. Gendry's arrival in her home gave way for some of the happiest and heartrending memories Winterfell had ever offered her. But as Tara kissed Gendry on both cheeks and hugged him tight, reluctant to let go, Arya watched with blank attentiveness, Catelyn holding her still in the chair that was just a bit too big for her. Sansa was sitting in the chair next to her, back straight and legs perfectly still.

Tara Umber was led from Winterfell, passing through the gates without looking back, though it probably had more to do with the two guards walking on either side of her than her lack of wanting to turn around.

The doors to the Great Hall were shut and the Stark family stared at Gendry.

He stared back.

Ned returned to his chair, placing Arya back on his lap, his hand settling on her back to steady her there, and beckoned Gendry closer.

"You _do_ know why you're here, Gendry, don't you?" Ned asked, a gentle tone tinging his voice, a concerned crease forming between his eyebrows.

Gendry raised his chin just slightly, and Arya buried her face in her father's chest, restlessness overtaking her with each second she was held there. If they would let her go out to the courtyard and run for just ten minutes…Ned's hand returned to her back as she slipped just slightly off his knee, squirming a tad too much. "I'm to stay here," Gendry replied. "My…my father wishes for me to remain in Winterfell until he decides otherwise."

"You'll be taught like any of my children, treated with no less care than any of them are privy to."

Gendry's eyes dropped, his face darkening for a moment, but Arya was too busy staring at her slippers to notice. "Thank you for your kindness, my lord," he mumbled, eyes trained on the floor beneath him. He sounded incredibly uncomfortable, like even at the young age of nine, he had too much pride to accept the gracious offer of warmth and comfort within the walls of Winterfell. If a thirteen-year-old Arya had heard the way he'd said it, she'd have yelled at him.

But Ned took it in stride like he did most things. "No need for that. You'll be shown to your room now."

"Yes, my lord."

"Is there anything you require that we need to be aware of?" Ned asked.

Gendry shook his head. "No, my lord."

If it was a lie, Arya was too oblivious to the situation to grasp it, and if Ned detected anything but the truth in his words, he didn't voice the thought.

"Very well," he resigned, placing Arya back on the floor and standing up. "You shall be present at supper, then."

"Yes, my lord."

Gendry's arrival was the first important thing to ever happened to Arya Stark, though she would never admit to that.

( O O O )

Three years later, when Arya had grown enough to understand what was happening around her and take everything in—she truly was more perceptive than anyone gave her credit for, and she had developed that specific trait much earlier than anyone had anticipated—she had been far too used to Gendry's presence in her life to consider why it everyone thought it was so strange.

He spent most of his days with Mikken in the forge, and when he wasn't sitting as close to the workplace as he could without burning his hand off, he was with Jon, some sort of bond tying them together that Arya didn't understand but stubbornly wanted to be apart of. Jon was _her_ brother, and she'd never looked at Gendry as a brother. He was the boy who had been brought to live with them and who joined them for dinner every single night, but he rarely spoke unless he was spoken to, and even though Arya was incredibly perceptive for a girl of seven, she was still a child.

Managing to sneak out of lessons with Septa Mordane was a struggle to accomplish, but sometimes Arya was able to pull it off. The few times she'd done it had been brief, and she'd always been scolded for it by her mother, but that never stopped her from trying.

She found Jon and Gendry just inside the forge, but when they saw her approaching, expression wide and open just like it should be, they immediately stopped talking.

"Arya," Jon said, standing up, meeting her outside the forge. Gendry followed right behind him, watching her wearily. "Shouldn't you be sewing with Sansa?"

Arya wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I don't like sewing. I always prick myself with the needle, and none of my stitches are ever even," she grumbled. "I want to stay here."

"Maybe later," he offered, looking back at the slightly panicked face Gendry had pulled when he saw her coming. "I'll see if I can convince one of the cooks to give me some sweet rolls and we'll eat them before supper, no one will know. Gendry will even keep the secret, right?" He raised his eyebrows at Gendry imploringly.

Gendry shrugged, not making a sound.

Arya furrowed her brow at him, distrust and even a bit of unfriendliness leaking through the way she studied him.

"But that means I have to go back to sewing _now_ , and that's why I'm _here_ in the first place," she said impatiently. "And soon Mother and Father will come looking for me because Septa Mordane and Sansa _always_ tell on me when I'm not at my lessons. Why can't I stay here?" she asked, looking back and forth between the two of them with something akin to jealousy, wondering what was so special about the boy who barely said a word that Jon would tell her to go without a second thought.

"We're discussing something—"

"Arya!"

Arya stiffened at the sound of Septa Mordane's voice. She turned her head and saw her mother standing beside the septa and she looked back at Jon with anger quickly rising through her face. "If you would have let me come inside the forge, I wouldn't have to go back now," she said, her voice an octave higher than usual as she gathered up the skirt of her dress and stomped away from Jon and Gendry.

Jon called out her name, but she didn't turn around, and the way Catelyn eyed him as he spoke her daughter's name silenced him immediately. Instead, he went right back inside the forge and Gendry was behind him, leaving Arya to her sewing.

"What were you doing by the forge, Arya?" Catelyn asked, her eyes stern. "That's no place for a little girl; you could get seriously hurt in there. The fire could burn you." Her voice held a note of worry to it, scared of considering the idea of her youngest daughter harmed.

Arya stared at her shoes, pursing her lips together. "I don't like sewing," she said. "It's boring, and I wanted to be with Jon—"

"Jon has other things to do besides distracting you from your lessons and responsibilities." For all her perceptiveness, Arya missed the way Cat's voice tightened around Jon's name. She favored him too much and was simply too young to entertain the idea of anyone not loving him the way she did yet.

"He wasn't distracting me. If anything, Gendry was distracting _him_ from _me_. He's always—"

"Arya," Cat said, bending at the waist so she could look her daughter in the eye. "It's time to get back to your lessons. Come along. Septa Mordane will teach you how to make all of your stitches even."

She didn't know how to say that she didn't _care_ in a way that would finally get them to listen to her. She didn't have the words, didn't know them yet, but she knew what she _felt_. She didn't care if her stitches were even and she didn't care if she never embroidered a single pillow in her life. She just wanted to run around the courtyard in a pair of breeches like Jon's and find out what was so interesting about the forge that Gendry couldn't be dragged away from it.

But she couldn't very well explain _that_ , not without falling into a ramble of meaningless words, so Arya had little else to do except take her mother's hand and allow herself to be led back to the small room with Sansa and Jeyne Poole, who were sitting together just as she'd last seen them, fingers delicately dancing through their needles and threads.

It was only later that night, after dinner when Arya was sitting on a stack of hay in the courtyard that she heard footsteps behind her. She turned around and saw Gendry approaching her, two sweet rolls in his hand.

"Jon said you like these," he said, holding one out to her. "He wanted to find you before so you could have some, but no one knew where you were."

Arya shrugged, eying the sweet roll with suspicion. Gendry had never so much as spoken to her unless it was necessary—which it hardly ever was. Finally, he let out an exasperated breath and set the roll on the haystack next to her.

"No, don't!" she cried, picking it up and brushing off the bottom. "You'll get hay all over it and then I can't eat it!"

He eyed her incredulously. "Well, maybe if you'd _taken_ it when I offered it to you—"

"Am I supposed to immediately accept whatever you pass me as soon as you do?" she shot back, eyebrows raising high on her forehead in a challenge that no seven-year-old would dare consider when sized up against an opponent like Gendry if they knew who he was.

But Arya didn't much care for who he was.

Gendry scoffed and Arya ripped off a piece from the sweet roll, taking a bite and feeling an involuntary smile spread across her face. There was nothing like that warm, buttery taste that had just enough sugar you could tell it was different from ordinary bread. And there they stayed, Arya, perched upon her haystack, Gendry, standing just a bit too far away that it was slightly uncomfortable until she finished the roll and looked over at him.

"You haven't even touched yours," she stated, eyes falling on the whole roll he still held in his hand.

Gendry looked down at it as if just remembering it was there. "Did you want it?" he asked, ready to hold it out to her, but Arya shook her head.

"Why are you standing over there like that? There's space enough for you, too," she said, scooting a bit closer to the edge to make more room for Gendry to sit.

He eyed the space cautiously for a second or two before moving to sit beside her and slowly dug into his bread.

It was the first time they'd had a conversation in all the time he'd been staying in Winterfell.

( O O O )

It takes another year and a half for Arya and Gendry to form something that vaguely resembles friendship. As they grow up side by side but not together, she starts to hate dresses more passionately and discovers a fondness for arrows, and he starts to use his hands in the forge instead of just his eyes. She learns that he's like Jon—that his father is married to a woman who is not his mother, and his parents were never married. When she discovers this, she can't be angry at him for dragging Jon's attention away from her. She's well aware of how lost Jon feels, and despite the alienation, Arya begins to feel as Sansa excels and she falls behind, she knows deep down that she'll never know exactly what it feels like to be Jon or Gendry. With her age, she develops insecurity that's egged on by Jeyne Poole and at first, Sansa sits beside her and pretends not to hear, but the first time she joins in, Arya leaps up from her stool and throws the pillow she'd been trying to embroider aside.

"You're both just stupid! All you do is sit and write pretty words on stiff pillows no one will ever want to use, and you think just because you know all the words to all the songs, that means you can sing them, but you both sound _awful_!"

She runs out and it's Jon who finds her hours later, crying in the stables, her arms wrapped around her knees, face buried in her muddied skirts.

"Father is looking for you," he said.

"It shouldn't be so hard to find me," she sniffed. "Arya Horseface appears to be my name now, so everyone will know where to look the next time I'm needed."

That night, Arya sits with Jon and Gendry at the table instead of her sister. Catelyn has a concerned look on her face, but Arya doesn't look up once, and it's the first time Gendry Waters makes her laugh when he discreetly slides a bowl of stew closer to Jon's elbow and he subsequently places it directly in the food. It's the first time she feels like she belongs in Gendry's presence, and she wonders if Jon told him what Sansa and Jeyne called her and if that's the reason he seems to take to her so easily all of a sudden, but she notices a kind of light to his blue eyes that she hasn't seen before.

It's nice, she thinks.

( O O O )

When she's nine, the king visits, and Gendry doesn't leave the forge until the whole bloody court appears in Winterfell's courtyard. Arya can't seem to grasp how King Robert could be Gendry's father, but she sees the similarities in their features, in the shocking blue of their eyes, in the strength that Gendry possesses and that Robert supposedly had back in his day. But their personalities are so different from each other that to Arya, they aren't even the same species.

The feast that the Starks throw to celebrate House Baratheon's visit to their home is a wonderful, joyous affair that even Arya appreciates until it's halfway through dinner and she realizes she hasn't seen Jon or Gendry all night. Their statuses as bastards will always be a stain on their names, she realizes at that moment, amongst song and dance and food so rich that if one of the commonfolk were to eat it, they'd surely get sick. Waters and Snow, two surnames for boys who had none. Arya knew neither of their stories, and the thought suddenly struck her that they probably didn't even know their own stories, either. All they knew was who their father was and that they should count their lucky stars for being raised within the comforts of legitimacy, unable to complain even as they were denied possibly the one thing that would bring them true happiness, a real sense of belonging.

The next day, Arya did something she'd never done before: She visited Gendry in the forge by herself. He was hammering on a short, thick sword, using more force than necessary, but she truly didn't know the difference. He did, though, after spending so much time under Mikken's careful tutelage, and it seemed he was eager to let out some of the anger that Baratheons were famous for. Did he even feel a right to call that anger his, when he couldn't even claim the name? The thought made Arya feel incredibly lonely for Gendry.

"Your father is the king and you can't even join the feast to celebrate his visit," she remarked to announce her presence. He didn't jump or seem to be startled. Maybe she wasn't as quiet as she thought she was. She'd have to work on that.

"That's alright," Gendry said gruffly. "Don't care all that much."

"But it's your father."

"But I don't seem to know him very well, do I?" he snapped, looking at her for the first time. "What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be off singing songs with your sister and the crown princess?"

Arya rolled her eyes. "You know just how much I hate all those things. I get bored to tears sitting through all those lessons with Septa Mordane. Even if I _did_ know how to answer one of her history questions right, it's not like I'd ever get a chance to answer. Sansa always shoots up with the correct answer like the perfect lady she is and I have to sit back and watch _her_ be praised."

"Sounds like a troubling life, m'lady."

"Don't call me that!" she yelled indignantly, drawing herself up to her full height, which didn't do much. She was small for her age in any case, but next to Gendry, who seemed to grow with each passing day, she was downright _tiny_. He stood much taller than her at fourteen, and he knew it. "I'm not a lady!"

"You don't _want_ to be a lady," he corrected, avoiding her eyes. "Not everyone can afford the luxury of not wanting what they've been given."

Arya never quite forgot the empty, graceless way those words made her feel.

( O O O )

Nearing the end of King Robert's visit, Arya and Jon were sitting with Gendry in the stables, passing time in long days that showed no end. "Sansa wants Father to discuss the idea of marriage to King Robert," Arya told them. "She wants to marry Prince _Joffrey_. He looks just like his mother, always a sour expression on that face. Like he's smelled something awful."

"Father won't agree to it," Jon said. "Sansa will beg, but he wouldn't say yes. There are stories about Joffrey…" Jon trailed off, looking down at the ground with his eyebrows drawn together. "He wouldn't let one of his daughters marry a monster."

"I won't marry anyone," Arya announced proudly, with all the confidence she held in her body. Gendry guffawed, loud and hearty. "What's so funny about that?" she snapped.

"You think you'll fight the marriage proposals lords will send all by yourself?" he asked.

Arya flushed, thinking of the way Jeyne Poole always said she wasn't pretty. "No one will send any marriage proposals," she muttered, her ears heating up with shame. "But it doesn't matter, because I don't _want_ anyone's marriage proposals. I'm going to be a knight."

"You've never even held a sword," Gendry shot back.

"I have, too! Robb showed me how to hold a sword properly, the way Ser Rodrick taught you all!"

"And what will you do when someone swings at you with a greatsword? You, who's so small you wouldn't even be able to pick it up?"

"Shut up! I'd be a great knight, right Jon?"

Jon stayed quiet, not looking up from the ground.

"What's going on in your head?" Gendry asked.

"Nothing. Just thinking about something."

Arya didn't bother asking what that something was, but when he announced that he'd be joining the Night's Watch a week later, she cried the whole night.

( O O O )

Jon's departure for the Night's Watch had left Arya properly miserable, something that Sansa rolled her eyes at. "Honestly, Arya, you act as if you can just be a child forever, running around with Jon and Gendry Waters all day. Everyone has a responsibility to do, and Jon can inherit no lands. What he did was for the best."

Arya felt her blood boil with anger at how flippantly she disregarded their half-brother. "You only say that because you _hate_ Jon."

"No, I don't!" Sansa said, eyes wide.

"Yes, you do! You hate him because he's a bastard, and you hate Gendry, too."

She left without giving Sansa the chance to retort. She disappeared into her room, locking the door behind her and unwrapping the greatest gift she'd ever received: Before Jon had left, he'd placed the smallest, skinniest sword Arya had ever seen in her hands and said it was hers, hers to practice with as long as she learned right and, more importantly, learned _carefully_. She didn't need to ask to know that Gendry had had a hand in making it, though she was sure Mikken did most of the work. Needle, she'd decided to name it, gazing at it with wonder in her eyes.

Sansa could say whatever she wanted and insult her however she wanted to. She'd never be able to take this gift away from her, a reminder that even though Jon was miles away, he was still her family.

( O O O )

With Jon's absence looming over Arya like a deep sadness she wasn't able to shake, she stopped visiting Gendry in the forge so often. She still saw him at supper, but she no longer sat with him, and slowly, more days passed without them ever exchanging more than a few words. She stole arrows from Bran and fidgeted in her dresses while Catelyn tried to tame her hair, and she begged Robb to teach her how to use a sword properly to no avail. Her days were spent sneaking out of lessons and trying to perfect her penmanship, Ned smiling fondly at her while she ran wild and endless fights with Sansa that never ceased, aimlessly swinging Needle around in the privacy of her room before it was found by Ned. Soon, shapeless movements turned into calculated jabs as Syrio Forel entered her world, bringing the water dance with him and enchanting Arya beyond fantasies of becoming a knight. Instead, he showed her the beauty of the art of sword fighting itself. She fell in love with chasing cats and balancing on one leg, wearing breeches and perfecting her aim at archery. Her mother grew more exasperated with her but Arya couldn't form the words she so desperately wanted to yell.

 _This is me, this is who I am and what I want to be_ , she thought as she raced barefoot through the courtyard with Rickon. _I want to run and be free and practice water dancing during the day while I ride my horse at night and no one can ever tell me I don_ _'t sing well enough or crack my knuckles for not writing prettily. I'll grow up in Winterfell and stay here as a knight in Robb's guard when he becomes Lord of Winterfell and I won't marry and I'll be able to do whatever I please whenever I wish it_.

At ten, Arya fancied herself a woman grown who didn't have to bear the responsibilities of ladies with her status, blind to the reality of her world because she believed she'd be able to convince her parents not to make her go through with any of it. She'd planned her whole life out and didn't bother thinking of alternatives. As Rickon raced ahead of her, she let him go, leaping over twigs and kicking up dirt behind her as she watched her little brother disappear behind the stables.

It was only when she stopped to catch her breath that she noticed she'd paused in front of the forge, a place she hadn't visited in almost seven months. Gendry was inside; she saw him through the open door, hammering a breastplate without noticing her watching him. She approached the door, rocking back on the balls of her feet with her hands clasped behind her back, waiting for him to notice her.

By the time he did, she'd grown impatient already, head cocked to the side as she studied him. "What brings you back?" he asked, his voice relatively emotionless.

"Passing through. Who's the breastplate for?" she asked.

"Robb. He asked for one for his nameday."

"It looks rather good."

"Would you consider yourself an expert on good armor, m'lady?" There was steel in Gendry's voice now, and Arya flinched away from it.

"Don't call me a lady. I'm not. I'm learning just the same as you now," she said angrily. "Syrio is teaching me."

"How nice for you, then."

"What's got you so upset?"

"Just a bit annoyed to be distracted while working, is all," Gendry replied, setting the breastplate aside. "Got so used to being on my own the past few months, your presence is a bit shocking, _my lady_."

Arya's face burned as she realized that she hadn't so much as spoken to Gendry in months. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "It wasn't right. I was upset about Jon leaving and then I started learning water dancing and it was nice not to miss him so much."

Gendry shrugged. "It's fine. He's my friend, too."

Arya walked a little farther into the forge, keeping her eyes wearily trained on Gendry. "I'll sneak to the kitchens?" she suggested. "We can snag a few sweet rolls and I'll teach you how to water dance. It's much better than all the fighting you do out there with Ser Rodrick."

He snorted. "If you say so."

It was like falling back into an easy pattern with Gendry. She still missed Jon, but she'd forgotten that Gendry had been her friend separate from her brother, as well. It wasn't hard, Arya realized, to slip back into those days of having fun with Gendry. If anything, it even made her happier than water dancing to have her friend back.

( O O O )

Years fade and Arya remains at Winterfell, working her hardest to resist the idea of marriage proposals. She watches Robb marry Jeyne Westerling and she notices the way Sansa gazes wistfully at the way they smile lovingly at each other at the high table during their wedding. It was no secret that Sansa wanted Ned and Cat to make a match for her, and soon. Arya couldn't understand why they were taking their time.

She sees Bran grow stronger, climbing higher and higher much to the displeasure and fear of their mother, while Rickon becomes as skilled with a sword as she is with a bow. _He_ _'ll fight like Jon someday_ , she thinks, remembering the way Ser Rodrick's eyes would burn with pride as he watched Jon move with a sword so effortlessly, never asking for any help because he didn't _need_ it. She still missed her brother something fierce, but in the spaces where he used to occupy, her friendship with Gendry had grown, as well.

There were times when he would get very silent and it would take an unanswered question or two before Arya realized he wanted to be alone, but the more it happened, the quicker she learned. Soon, she was comfortable to sit with him in his bouts of silence, swinging her feet from her high perch on a stool in the forge while he worked.

"Gendry," she asks one day, "do you remember your mother very much?"

He pauses, and Arya wonders if she shouldn't have asked. She never quite knew how Gendry felt about his parents because it had never been a topic of conversation, with anyone. She knows he must have spoken to Jon about it—she hardly forgets the first few years when she was so very jealous that Gendry was taking her favorite brother away from her until she learned _why_. But when it comes to the rest of the Stark family, no one acknowledges the real reason Gendry is here. To be honest, Arya was quite confused about it, herself.

"A little. I was in Kings Landing until I was nine, but she wasn't there very much. King Robert allowed her to live with a handmaiden in the capital where he could pay for tutors and clothes, but she didn't spend much time with me. I was usually learning something new every day. I don't know if it was because she didn't want to see me or because she wasn't allowed to."

"What happened?" she asked.

Gendry looked up at her, understanding what she was asking. What was the story of Gendry's birth, why was he being raised like Jon instead of the thousands of unclaimed Blackfyres or Snows or Waters that littered Westeros? Why was he sent away to Winterfell to be raised here? There was hesitation in her expression like she'd take the question back if she saw he didn't want to answer, but he answered her anyway.

"On one of King Robert's visits North, your father had hosted a great feast, like the one he'd had the last time he was here," Gendry started, "and the Umbers were there, as well. Lady Tara Umber was young, unwed, and a maid, but when King Robert took her away that night, no one could say anything against a king, and when she turned up a few months later pregnant, he had to claim me as his. She was a highborn maiden, so he had no other choice."

Arya wrinkled her eyebrows. "Where'd you hear that? Why do you know about your parents but Jon doesn't?"

Gendry shrugged. "Some of the boys used to like to make fun of me about it. It's no secret that King Robert has quite a few bastards running around. I'm just the only one he was forced to claim. But Jon's asked your father many times about his mother. He just doesn't answer."

"Why were you brought here?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "It could be because Queen Cersei hated having me in Kings Landing. Maybe she wanted to send me away, far enough so she could forget the way her husband dishonored her. And she knew that honorable Ned Stark would do it without a moment's hesitation, especially when he was already raising a bastard within his walls."

"She doesn't seem like the type of woman to forget so easily," Arya mused.

"No, she doesn't. But she can't kill me, can she?"

"Thank the gods for that. I'd be so bored without you here."

He smirked at her before resuming his work. But Arya still had questions.

"And what about your mother now? Where…where is she?"

Gendry paused. "When I was brought to Winterfell, King Robert decided to make a match for her. She was well past marrying age, and she had already had a child out of wedlock, but she was still highborn. Now she's married to some Frey who had a first wife that passed away from a fever after giving him three sons already."

Arya didn't miss the note of anger in his voice. Lady Tara Umber seemed to have gotten some of the worst luck in the world. Arya would marry a hundred times if it meant she could avoid such disappointment in her life, as long as they were kind men.

"Are you ever gonna see her again?"

"I don't know," Gendry answered. "Don't know if she'd want to see me."

"Why wouldn't she? She's your mother."

"Because if it weren't for me, she wouldn't have the life she has now."

They wouldn't speak about it again for years.

( O O O )

Arya is fifteen the next time she sees King Robert, and with him, he brings his wife, his children, his guard, and a piece of paper that states he wishes to have Gendry Waters recognized as a legitimate son of Robert Baratheon.

She doesn't understand what's happening because no one bothers to explain it to her, not until Robb gets so tired of her pestering that he agrees to tell her what's going on. "They're going to make Gendry a Baratheon," he says.

Arya gapes. "What? But they'll take him away from Winterfell! And he likes it here! And he'll—he's _older_ than Joffrey. He'll be king!"

Robb scoffs. "No, he won't. He doesn't know the first thing about being king. Father told me that one of the agreements of his legitimization will be that he'll forfeit his right to the Iron Throne and take Storm's End, instead."

The idea is so incredibly ridiculous that Arya can barely think. No, Gendry doesn't know the first thing about being king. But he _was_ raised _here_ , with Robb and Jon and Theon and Bran and Rickon, boys who were raised learning how to be lords. It could make sense to her if she wasn't so wrapped up in the idea of him leaving.

Robb sighed. "Honestly, Arya, this is a good thing. I know he's your best friend, but you should be happy for him. He won't be a bastard anymore."

"Winterfell is his home."

"I don't think Gendry's ever had a home," he observed, and Arya closed her mouth instantly.

As she allowed one of her handmaidens to help her into her dress for the feast tonight, Arya thought about what Robb had said. Did Gendry not consider Winterfell to be his home? Did he still believe he didn't have a place in this world, whether it was Kings Landing or Winterfell, or even across the Narrow Sea in the Free Cities? If he thought that, then a piece of paper calling him Gendry Baratheon wouldn't change that, Arya realized, trying not to flinch as the laces of her dress were done up too tight.

She was escorted down to the Great Hall and took her place at the high table with the rest of her family, finally looking around and seeing what had changed. Gendry was seated at the table as well, she realized. He was sitting at the end, next to Rickon, but he was there. Usually, he was sitting towards the back of the hall with the rest of whatever guests Ned had invited, and it wasn't lost on her that he was able to be present at this feast when he hadn't been allowed during King Robert's previous visit six years ago.

King Robert, who was looking even worse for wear now than he did the last time Arya had seen him. He never stopped drinking and his laugh was a deep, heavy sort of heave that usually gave way to a coughing fit. He was massive now, so unhealthily large that Arya wondered how he could bear it. Queen Cersei sat beside him, her face still as stone, mouth pressed into a depressingly thin line as her husband grabbed at serving girls and spilled wine all over himself.

She had been lucky enough to avoid the royal family since they arrived. She wished to avoid them forever. It was _selfish_ , she thought to herself as she watched Gendry pick at pieces of meat and trade small bits of conversation with Rickon. Selfish of the king to ignore Gendry for his whole life and throw him away the second he could, banishing him to the edge of the continent and never bothering to write, visit, make any sign or indication that he was his _father_. And now all of a sudden he wanted to make him a Baratheon, a real stag, though Arya thought he was more like a bull with his stupid stubbornness and pride always getting in the way of everything. He was more stag than Joffrey, though, she admitted, looking upon the eldest prince with distaste. He was all lion, raised in the protective circle of his mother's arms, allowing his head to be filled with poison. But whatever cruelty Joffrey had shown in his life couldn't all be thanks to his mother. Queen Cersei held more pride in her family name than anyone she'd ever met, and she'd want her children to grow up as protective of House Lannister as she was. But she wouldn't raise them to order their personal guards to kill rabbits for sport. She had no doubt some of Joffrey's cruelty was courtesy of his mother, yes, but certainly not all of it. They simply had two different ways of displaying their brutality, something Arya shuddered to think about.

As the feast wore on, Arya tried to make her escape, eager to go to her room and strip off her dress, fall into bed, and have a long night of sleep. About half of the guests had disappeared from the Great Hall, but the Starks and Baratheons remained at their high table, and food kept being brought out of the kitchens. It was like an unending feast. She rose from the table for the first time that night, drawing the attention of her mother.

"Arya," she said, "where are you going?"

Ned and King Robert looked up from their conversation, and she swore she saw Robert's eyes widen at her for a second before narrowing down to slits. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. The look he gave her made her sit down immediately. She didn't want to pass by him.

"My legs were falling asleep, Mother," she said, keeping one eye on Catelyn, the other on the king. "Just needed a stretch."

The way Robert kept looking at her made her more uncomfortable with each drink he took. Wine goblet after goblet, she kept her eye on him the whole night. She realized later on that it was a mistake, once she realized why he kept staring at her.

"Ned, it's Lyanna. Look, sweet, beautiful Lyanna," he said, voice thick from wine and, Arya assumed, unshed tears.

She knew all about Lyanna Stark. Her aunt, dead before even Sansa had been born, the girl who'd started a rebellion and never even got to see how it ended. She'd heard many words used to describe her father's sister: Wild, untamed, beautiful, friendly, always eager to discover something new about life as long as she was able to enjoy it. And she knew that she'd been promised to Robert before Rhaegar Targaryen had stolen her right out from under Robert and his own wife's noses. Arya often wondered if Lyanna had ever had a choice in just about anything before she died.

"Robert," Ned said in his ear, voice firm, "that's Arya. My daughter, Arya. You haven't seen her since she was nine, she's—"

"Dead," Robert cut him off, the goblet falling from his hands. It landed on the table for just a moment before toppling over, wine spilling onto his plate of meat and potatoes. The look Queen Cersei had on her face could have very well started a fire. "Dead, with her ghost here to haunt me."

Arya recoiled as if she had been struck. There were enough people seated between her and the king, but she still felt like she was too close. Her head whipped around and her eyes met Gendry's, who was looking at her with confusion and something close to sadness on his face. She turned back to her parents and Robert. Catelyn had an expression of concern about her while Ned gripped his friend's shoulder tightly, speaking to him low enough that no one was able to hear him. Beside her, Sansa was just as confused as Arya was, but Arya was the one feeling like her skin was crawling. She needed to be out of this dress, immediately.

She stood up. "I think I'll be going to bed now," she said hoarsely and turned around. She took the long way around the table, refusing to pass by King Robert on her way out, and she heard a chair scrape against the floor behind her. She suspected it was her mother, but Arya didn't turn around until she reached her bedroom.

Catelyn was right behind her, a hand stretched out to touch her daughter's shoulder. "The king is not feeling himself. He's had a bit of wine and he's—"

"He's _always_ had a bit of wine," Arya said hotly. "He's always drunk. And now I'm tired and want to go to bed."

She disappeared behind the door without allowing Catelyn time to respond, locking it and running immediately to her bed. She didn't know why she was bothered so much by what the king had said. Something about the way he'd looked at her the first time tonight, a familiarity he hadn't earned clouding his gaze as he watched her, his eyes always returning to her throughout the rest of dinner. But he wasn't looking at _her_. He was looking at Lyanna, at a lost love who had been taken from him. He'd won the rebellion, and he'd still lost her, and he was often slowed down by the amount of wine he liked to drink, but he was quick enough to discard Arya as a ghost.

A _ghost_. She hated that word. She didn't want to be a ghost who disappeared into the shadows until it was time to haunt someone else. She wanted to be _her_ , Arya Stark of Winterfell who rode horses fast and enjoyed sitting by her father's feet during supper while he spoke to every single person in his castle, who shot arrows straight into her target and was able to fight reasonably well for a girl her size. But wasn't that what she'd heard of Lyanna, as well? Wasn't she just as wild and hungry for freedom as Arya was? Hadn't she also exasperated her parents with her unwillingness to bend to the rules of ladies? Lyanna was just a far prettier version of her niece. Maybe she _was_ a ghost, and Lyanna's last moments before her death had dimmed her beauty. Maybe that was why Arya was ugly, little Arya Horseface who would never make a match unless it was out of political necessity.

She didn't realize she'd been crying until there were two strong knocks on her door. She jumped and sniffed, wiping away tears she hadn't realized had fallen. "Who is it?" she asked, hating the way her voice shook.

"Can I come in?" Ned Stark's voice asked through the door.

Hesitantly, Arya rose from her bed and opened the door, unable to meet her father's eyes. He put his thumb and forefinger under her chin, tilting her head up towards him. "No tears, now," he said gently. "What was it you said just the other day when Rickon hurt his foot? Only little ladies cry."

"I've changed my mind," she said, still hating herself for crying over something so stupid and crying harder still.

"Now, now," Ned soothed, bringing her over to the bed where they sat side by side. "Robert has had much to drink—"

"Mother already tried saying it, and I don't care. He's old and fat and drunk and _stupid_ if he doesn't recognize his best friend's daughter—"

"He's the _king_ ," Ned reminded her, a warning look in his eye. "And he didn't recognize you because he hasn't seen you since you were a child."

"And because he thought I was _your_ sister. And he was disappointed because she's dead, and I'm not pretty enough to pass as her. I don't even want him looking at me, ever again. I won't see the royal family again for as long as I live."

" _Arya_ —"

"No!" She never raised a voice to Ned, but there was so much sadness rising in her that she couldn't help it. She lapsed back into silence, ashamed of the way she'd spoken.

Arya sat, staring at the wall, ignoring the way her father waited patiently at her side. Or, at least, trying to ignore him.

"I don't want to be a ghost," she said finally, her voice uncomfortably loud in a space where there had previously been only silence.

Ned gripped her arm tight enough to get her to look at him. "Listen to me," he said fiercely, looking down at her with a strange mix of sadness, anger, and grief written across his face. But most of all, Arya saw pride there, plain as day, burning bright. "You are not a ghost. You are Arya Stark, Princess of Winterfell, daughter of the Lord and Lady Stark of Winterfell, and yes, you carry a resemblance to my sister. Sometimes I look at you, and I get so caught off guard by it that it hurts, but you are not Lyanna, and you are certainly not her ghost. You're a real girl, a real woman. A pretty girl who anyone would be foolish to set aside. And you should always remember that, and always be proud of who you are. Never let someone take who you are away from you."

( O O O )

It's a week after the news of Gendry's legitimization is brought to the public, and the royal family is still here. Their visit doesn't seem to be nearing an end, either. Arya has managed to avoid them as best as she can, though there are still times when she thinks she can feel King Robert staring directly at her, shamelessly watching every move she makes. She tries not to think about, instead choosing to focus on the words her father had told her that night and draws herself up in her high-backed chair.

 _My name is Arya Stark, Princess of Winterfell_ , she reminded herself. _I_ _'ll be a knight of Robb's guard and I'll live in Winterfell, and I'll be happier than Aunt Lyanna ever was because I'll be the one who got_ free.

One morning, she's watching Robb as he practices archery in the courtyard. Jeyne is sitting next to her, her hand placed protectively on the bump steadily growing underneath her gown. "How long do you think they'll be here?" Arya asked, picking at her nails.

Robb shoots an arrow and watches with satisfaction as it just barely misses the target. "The king and his family?" He shrugs. "Probably a few more weeks. They want to arrange a match first before they leave."

Arya freezes. "They want to do _what_?" she asks incredulously.

Robb turns around and raises an eyebrow at her. "A match, for Gendry. If he'll be lord of Storm's End when Renly inevitably gives it up, he'll need a wife to help father sons."

The thought turns Arya's stomach. They wanted to take Gendry away _and_ give him some wife he's never met before who won't even know how to talk to him?

"What's got your face looking like that?" Robb asked. Jeyne shook her head from her spot next to Arya, her hand slowly moving in circles on her stomach.

"Who's he gonna marry? Some Karstark girl?"

Robb shook his head. "Apparently, King Robert has some kind of fascination, or obsession, with joining our families. There's talk of a match between Gendry and Sansa."

Arya swears she loses all the breath she has. " _Sansa_ ," she repeated, her voice much higher than usual.

Jeyne turns to Arya with a comforting look. "Arya, I'm sure it was just a conversation. It doesn't always mean anything."

"But it was still a conversation! And she'll…she can't marry him."

Robb was looking at her curiously. "Why not?" She didn't like the way he said it. Like he knew very well why it was a bad idea, but he wanted to hear Arya's reasoning.

"Because she doesn't like him! Because she doesn't do any of the things he likes! It would be a terrible match; they'd _never_ be happy."

"Well, if you prefer to fight King Robert on this yourself—"

Arya jumped up from the bench. "You think I won't?" she challenged.

Robb places a hand on her arm to keep her in place. "I know you _shouldn_ _'t_ ," he states, his eyes hard. "If you're going to talk to anyone, it should be to Sansa, or to Gendry. Even Mother or Father, but you will _not_ speak to the king."

He'd never spoken to her like that before. Just by the conviction in his voice, Arya knew she wouldn't fight the king directly on his plans to marry Gendry to Sansa, but she was still who she was, and she couldn't help it if it was in her nature to push. Even after resigning herself to doing as she was bid, she still felt the need to ask questions and make remarks. It was no wonder people found her so much harder to love than Sansa. Perhaps Gendry _would_ be happier with someone so ladylike, someone who wouldn't push him in the chest or yell at him for calling her _my lady_.

"And why shouldn't I?" she asked. Arya had no desire to speak to King Robert, but still, the words left her mouth.

"I won't have you, little sister, speaking to the king because I see how he isn't able to stop staring at you when he's had too much to drink and he deludes himself into thinking you're Aunt Lyanna," Robb says, his voice carefully pitched much lower than usual. "And he's _always_ had too much to drink."

Arya takes her arm back from Robb's grip and stands up to her full height. "I can fight."

Robb laughs, suddenly so full of affection for his little sister than he reaches out and musses her hair up, something he hasn't done since she was twelve and started hitting him for it. A slap to the chest is exactly what he gets, but all he does is smile wider. "No one doubts you can. You, with your tiny toothpick sword and your water dancing."

"It's a _perfect_ sword," she says heatedly. _Jon_ gave her that sword, a gift that Gendry had helped make, the sword that had been made especially for her and fit her like a glove.

"I've never seen someone so comfortable with a sword," Robb agreed easily, eyes still alight with mirth, "sometimes it scares me."

"That's the point," Arya said proudly, raising her chin.

This time, it's Jeyne who laughs, smoothing out her skirts and standing up beside Arya, putting an arm around her shoulders. It makes Arya shrink instinctively; she liked Jeyne, and she was happy to call her her goodsister, but sisterly affection was a stranger to Arya with no female friends to call her own. But she didn't pull away. She never did when it was Jeyne Westerling.

"Never change, Arya," she said, squeezing her shoulder once before letting go.

She's been trying her hardest not to ever since she could remember.

( O O O )

"Have you heard the news?" Arya asks later that day, footsteps light on the floor as she walked into the forge.

He's standing over a sword, looking down at it with a frustrated expression on his face, like he'd asked it a question and it refused to answer. "About my own legitimization?" Gendry replied, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, figured it would be inappropriate if I were unaware, wouldn't it? Does m'lady have any objections?"

"About the engagement," Arya clarified, not chastising him for calling her a lady, for once. Her heart just wasn't in it today. The few hours that had passed since she'd heard from Robb what King Robert's plans were had been a worthless drag for her. She'd debated going right to her parents, eager to settle what had to be the product of insanity, but she couldn't just let Gendry be unaware. It wouldn't be right to keep in the dark about plans that involved some of the biggest decisions of his life.

Strong, stubborn Gendry who'd treated Arya with more kindness than most people Arya came into contact with. Her best friend who let her sit with him while he worked, who let her bother him with her incessant questions and never stopped indulging her with answers, however short or exasperated he might get with her. And now they wanted him to leave, Arya thought sadly. They wanted to take him out of Winterfell and put him up in Storm's End where he'd become a lord and he'd never be able to visit a forge and work the way he wanted to, the way Ned pretended not to notice. They wanted him to leave her, and she didn't know when the idea of him leaving began to hurt so much.

"Engagement?" Gendry's eyes flickered over to her, wider than they had been a second ago, a panicked sort of look coming over his face. Arya flinched away from that look; he probably thought he meant an engagement to _her_.

"Yes," she said. "To Sansa."

" _Sansa_?" Gendry breathes, and he loses that look he'd gotten. Arya tries not to think about it too hard.

"Robb told me," she informs him. "King Robert wants you to have a wife when you go to Storm's End, so you can be prepared with little lords and ladies ready to take over ruling when you die like they're already planning out your life for you before you've even been legitimized—"

"What's that got to do with you?" he asks suddenly, shocking her. "Haven't you always complained about them planning your life for you before it's even properly begun? You must have known they'd do that with me, too, now that I'm going to be a Baratheon, too." The way he said it made Arya uncomfortable. She used to think that any bastard would want to have a surname to call their own, to belong to a family. To belong to a noble family was an even greater privilege. But the way Gendry sounded when he said he'd be a Baratheon soon sounded like he was wishing to go back to being simple Gendry Waters, a blacksmith in the making.

"Yeah, but you used to have a choice," Arya said. "Don't you want to have a choice again?"

Gendry scoffed. "A choice? Arya, are you blind? What part of my life has seemed like a choice to you? I didn't ask to be born, I didn't ask Robert to sleep with my mother and dishonor her, even though no one can say a word to him because he's the fucking _king_. I didn't ask to be sent here. All I wanted was to work in a forge and live in peace."

Arya doesn't reply for a long while, avoiding the anger on his face by keeping her eyes trained on the wall over his shoulder that's lined with hammers, swords, and daggers. How many of those had he made, Arya wondered. How many more would he have the opportunity to make before he never saw a forge again?

"Do you want to marry Sansa?" Arya asked quietly.

Gendry looked at her like she was an idiot. She considered it to be answer enough and ran out of the forge.

( O O O )

Arya wants to know if Sansa is aware of her marriage plans, and she finds out when she hears the shouting.

"I don't want to marry him!" Sansa yelled, her voice reaching past the thick door to her father's study.

Arya had been standing in the hallway for the past ten minutes trying to eavesdrop, but not until now had she been able to hear anything.

"I can't—I _won't_!" Her voice sounded closer now like she had stormed over to the door and was about to come out. Arya darted behind a corner, her lips pressed together tightly for a few tense beats before tentatively resuming her previous position when there was no more movement.

"Sansa, please." Cat's voice sounded more tired than Arya had ever heard it when directed at her sister. That tone was usually reserved for her. "Robert wants to unite our family with his, and with Gendry set to rule Storm's End, he wants a Stark to be his wife. He wants—"

"A bastard smith to wed a girl he's never looked at? I won't sacrifice my happiness for someone—"

The door burst open, and Sansa shrieked at the sound, her hands curling into fists at the sight of Arya standing there, seething. Ned and Cat both started to move towards their youngest daughter, but Arya only had eyes for her sister. Even close to tears, Sansa Stark would always be more beautiful than her, long red hair blazing around her in waves while the handmade dress she'd sewn herself fit her perfectly. _Gendry wouldn't look twice at me if we stood next to each other_ , Arya thought bitterly.

"You'd be lucky to have him," she said. "He's worth a hundred—no, a _thousand_ of your stupid lords who you love and admire so much. You don't even know what any of them are like, you only listen to the songs. You selfish, self-absorbed girl, it would be _him_ making a sacrifice to marry someone as cold as you."

Sansa let out a disgusted laugh. "You must be half-blind and deaf if you think you understood _that_ from trying to sneak around Father's door." She shoved past her sister, who stumbled into the doorway as Sansa swept down the hall and rounded the corner, presumably on her way to her room, leaving Arya to stare her parents down with nothing but anger and maybe even a bit of sadness etched across her face.

"You'd be doing everyone a disservice to approve that match," she said, voice trembling.

Ned was staring at Arya like he was seeing her for the first time. He took a step closer to her and smoothed a hand through her hair. "What was that all about?" he asked.

"She'll make him miserable, and he'll never be able to make her happy. He's not like anyone in the stories, he won't..." She closed her eyes. "They'd be so unhappy together. You won't see any children from them if you approve the match, Father."

Catelyn turned away to look out the window, pondering while Arya engaged in a staring contest with her father.

Finally, he sighed and gently nudged her towards the door. "Go to bed," he said.

Arya could do nothing but listen.

( O O O )

Her sixteenth nameday comes, and with it, Jon surprises her with a visit from the Wall. When she sees him riding upon his horse, passing through Winterfell's gates in his thick black cloak, she lets out a shriek from her spot on the balcony and races down to fling herself in his arms. Ned and Robb are standing there, smiling down at the way Arya looks truly happy for the first time since King Robert had come to Winterfell. Jon lifts her up from the ground and she wraps her arms around him as tight as she can around the furs he's wrapped himself in. Immediately, they go towards the kitchens, no doubt in search of some sweet rolls as Arya begins chattering at a mile a minute, recounting her water dancing lessons and how Needle is still in perfect shape.

They spend supper together, an indulgence Arya considers a nameday present to forgo sitting with the rest of her family at the high table with House Baratheon. Gendry is still up there though, eyeing them with longing as he remains by Rickon's side. Sansa sits next to their mother, not turning her head towards him even once.

"They aren't officially betrothed," Arya says. "No agreement has been made, Robb told me. King Robert is getting annoyed with Father, though. Robb is worried he'll start to consider it as a slight."

"Will they get married?" Jon asks, looking at Arya shrewdly.

"I hope not," she said, speaking honestly in front of the one person she knows she can.

"Why not?"

She doesn't answer.

"Apparently, the fact that no agreement has been made means that King Robert can continue looking for other girls to marry Gendry off to. He's said it while arguing with Father before."

"Robb told you that, too?"

Arya nodded in confirmation.

"And if not Sansa, who would you prefer Gendry marry?"

Arya wrinkled her nose. "Gendry doesn't want to marry. He doesn't even want to be a lord. He wants to continue working in the forge with Mikken and live at Winterfell."

Jon cocks his head at her. "I think that's what _you_ want Gendry to do."

She glares at him. "It's what I know he wants to do. It's what he's always wanted to do."

Jon sighed. "Gendry," he said, "has only ever wanted to belong."

Arya looks at her half-brother, wondering if he wishes he could take Gendry's place. To be called a Stark, to be legitimized and officially belong to the family. In Arya's eyes, he was as much of a Stark as she was, but she knew Jon would never feel that way. She wanted to know if he felt jealous, even as he saw the way Gendry looked at the two of them with envy on his own face.

She didn't have the courage to ask.

( O O O )

"Happy nameday."

Arya turned around, her eyes falling on Gendry. In his hands, he held a long parcel. "It's almost over," she noted, looking up at the dark sky.

"So I still have time to give you this." He held out the parcel for her to take.

Inside, there was a beautiful black leather sheath for Needle, so much nicer than the one she still had from when Jon first gifted the sword to her. There was a little direwolf etched near the point of the sheath, its head turned upwards. Arya imagined it howling at the moon. "It's wonderful," she breathed, running her fingers across the leather. "It's the best present I've gotten."

"Better than Jon coming to surprise you?" Gendry asked ruefully.

Arya smiled as she thought of Jon back home, even if it was only for a bit. "That's not fair. You know how much I missed Jon. But this..." She carefully wrapped the sheath back up, placing it delicately on her lap. "It's beautiful."

"I'm happy it pleases my lady."

"Don't _call me that_ ," Arya said sternly. "You always go off ruining everything."

Gendry snorted, looking up at the sky. "Guess I do."

They stood together in silence before Arya turned towards him, thinking about what Jon said tonight at dinner. "Do you want to be lord of Storm's End?" she asked.

He thought about it for a moment. "I think I could be good at it. I was raised here just as Jon was, and it's not like I was treated horribly as a bastard. I learned how to be a lord the same way your brothers did, but I'll be sorry to leave Winterfell."

"Do you not think of this as your home?" Arya asked.

"Yes. More my home than Kings Landing ever was. But even you'll have to leave one day when you get married."

"I don't _want_ to get married," Arya said vehemently.

Something painful twisted Gendry's face up. "Yes, I'm well aware."

She didn't like thinking about that face. She especially didn't like thinking about how it made her feel incredibly lonely, the two of them leaving Winterfell at some point, going off in their separate directions, possibly never seeing each other ever again.

He was her family. He couldn't just disappear.

But despite Arya's best efforts, she couldn't control the way the world worked.

( O O O )

"Are you going to marry her?" Arya asked the next day, sitting at the edge of the pond where she'd seen her father sharpen his greatsword so many times now. She kept her eyes steady on the water, trying her hardest not to look at Gendry.

Gendry scoffed. "So I'll be your goodbrother then, is that it?" he asked.

She flinched back from the word. It didn't fit right when it applied to them. How many times had she thought of Gendry as a brother? Not many since they'd grown up, she realized. He was her family, but he wasn't like her brother. She didn't care for him the way she cared for Jon or Robb or even Sansa. She flushed when she saw him working shirtless in the forge and she jumped back when he touched her unexpectedly, and she absolutely raged when she heard the marriage plans between Gendry and Sansa.

But she couldn't think about that.

"You will be if you marry her."

"Do you _want_ me to marry her?" he questioned.

Arya's head jerked up. "What kind of a question is that? Where do I fit into this?"

"Well, you're my best friend, aren't you? Do you approve of a match between me and—"

"My sister?" she interrupted, unable to hear the sound of Sansa's name on his lips. "No! She's so... _her_. You'd never be able to make her happy, she'd always want more, and—"

She'd missed the way he recoiled from her as if she'd slapped him. "And I wouldn't be able to give her what she wants, is that it? Too much of a lowborn bastard to give Sansa anything she desires?"

"Is that what would make you happy? Being able to give the great and beautiful Sansa Stark everything to her heart's content?"

Gendry snorted. "Are you that stupid?" he asked, ignoring the way she shouted at that. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe _she_ wouldn't be enough for _me_?"

Arya blinked and stopped short. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Gendry stood up in front of her. "I'm not meant to marry Sansa. I thought I wasn't to marry anyone before the legitimization because the one girl I wanted could never be mine."

"Gendry—"

"Or does she just not _want_ to be mine at all? Is that it? Arya?"

"I shouldn't—"

He cut her off with a kiss, a hard press of his lips against hers. They moved awkwardly enough that Arya had to wonder if he was almost as inexperienced as she was. She knew he'd kissed at least three girls because she'd overheard each of them share their own tale at some point, and she'd been too embarrassed to ask why he hadn't told her or question what it had been like. But maybe it was also the nerves that caused them both to fumble slightly as they struggled to kiss each other back. It took Arya several heartbeats to find her head and jerk away. Her hand came up of its own accord and pushed him hard in the chest, a second hit landing on the side of his neck. If she hadn't been so lightheaded, she wouldn't have missed. He'd made her aim quite awful. She hated him for it.

"I never said you could that," she seethed. "I'll see you at dinner tonight." And with that, she ran out of the godswood.

( O O O )

"Will you permit a dance, Lady Arya?"

Arya looked up, her eyes meeting Gendry's as he towered above her, his gaze unfaltering. He knew exactly what he was doing. She couldn't exactly say no, not when he was standing in front of her for everyone to see, his hand outstretched. If it had ever been anyone else, she would have scoffed and turned away, uncaring of her mother's disappointed looks. But he was King Robert's _legitimized_ son, she remembered. That usually wouldn't mean a thing to her, but—

This was Gendry.

She took his hand with caution, her eyes held wearily on his. He led her to the center of the room, where many people were gathered, and together, they danced.

Arya didn't look at the high table where King Robert was watching them with something close to obsession in his eyes. Ned and Catelyn were whispering together, furtive glances thrown their way occasionally, but Arya saw none of it. Robb was playfully pushing a smirking Jeyne's hand away from his face as she tried to placate him even as she gloated, but Sansa refused to even look at the dance floor. Bran and Rickon were so unconcerned it would have been laughable had Arya noticed it, but Jon, sitting closer than any of them, watched them with a calculating look, taking in every movement and gesture.

"I'm sorry for kissing you earlier today," he said, voice low so no one would hear.

"I suppose I'm sorry for hitting you," she offered stiffly.

Gendry looked at her desperately, panic settling on his face after going through a wide selection of emotions. "Is there no way to convince you otherwise? Is there nothing you feel for me other than that of a brother—"

"You're not my brother," Arya said. "I don't think of you like that."

She didn't want to admit the way she _did_ think of him.

"Then is all you feel for me a friendly affection? Did you feel nothing when I kissed you?" At her lack of response, Gendry groaned in frustration. " _Arya_. I...I have loved you for a while now— _please_ , if you won't accept me, then will you at least look at me and do me the courtesy of hearing me out?"

It took her a few seconds but she finally dragged her eyes up to him.

"I have loved you for a while now and I thought...I thought I would never be able to say how I felt because I was just a bastard. But now I am in the position to say these things and have a chance to have my feelings returned. I am not engaged to your sister, nor do I want to be. It was one conversation between our parents that meant nothing. They see how no one wants this match to go through. But we could be happy. I could make you happy."

There was such open honesty on his face that it made Arya's heart splinter. "I'm not a lady—"

Gendry laughed. "Is that what this is about? You won't accept my hand because you think you're not _ladylike_ enough? I don't want you to be a lady, Arya, I want you to be my wife, my beautiful and free wife of your own will. And despite what you think, just because you can't embroider a pillow or hate wearing dresses, doesn't mean you wouldn't be a good lady. You're one of the friendliest people I've ever met. You spend every night by your father's chair and talk with nobles and smallfolk alike, and you treat people with as much fairness as they deserve. Not many lords or ladies can say the same. You're smart and you know how to run a household—"

"I don't _want_ to run a household, Gendry, I want—"

"What? To be in Robb's guard and be a knight? You know no one will ever accept that."

"So instead I should marry you?"

Hurt flashed across his face. "Would it really be so bad?" he asked, his voice much smaller now. "Would you really prefer to stay here in Winterfell forever, never growing past this castle? Is it just the idea of an engagement between Sansa and I that bothers you, or would it please you if I were to marry no one else but you?"

Arya stopped, her head hurting with the truth he'd just told her. If she stayed in Winterfell, she'd end up like one of the weirwood trees in the godswood, immovable for centuries, never to leave. There was a time when she thought that was what she wanted, but she'd never allowed herself to grow up enough to consider anything more than what a nine-year-old Arya Stark desired.

"I don't..."

"What?"

"I don't know what I want," she said quietly, the shame of admitting such a simple statement bringing her gaze to the floor as her ears turned red.

The music stopped, and so did Gendry, halting their dance. He looked down at her with sadness and regret flooding his face. "If I had approached you before I was a Baratheon..." He paused, deciding against continuing his thought. "I'm sorry for causing you any distress, Arya."

He turned away from her, and Arya was so embarrassed to be left on the floor by herself that she disappeared from the Great Hall and went straight to her room.

( O O O )

Jon stood behind Arya, watching carefully as her trembling fingers struggled and fumbled to undo whatever complex style her handmaid had knotted her hair into. He wanted to reach out and help, worried that her hand would slip and a pin would hurt her scalp, but that would only irritate her more.

The longer she went unable to free her hair, the more frustrated she got, and eventually, her anger at Sansa, her hatred towards the king, and her conflicted feelings for Gendry exploded all at once and she let out a shriek before tears exploded behind her hands as she rose them up to cover her face, too ashamed to let Jon see her cry.

Immediately, he rushed forward, one hand on her shoulder, the other settling in her hair. He stayed like that for a few minutes, waiting until she'd stopped shaking to try and ease the countless pins out of her hair. It could have taken less time if he wasn't so cautious. Every time she jerked with a new crest of tears, he paused, hesitant to continue. But eventually, he placed the final pin on the vanity and slowly pried her hands away from her face, kneeling down in front of her so they were at eye level with each other.

Her eyes were red—Jon couldn't remember the last time she'd cried from anything other than Sansa hurling spiteful comments at her. It made his heart hurt to see her like this.

"He kissed me," she whispered, looking at her hands clasped together in her lap. "This morning, in the godswood."

Jon couldn't find it in himself to be surprised.

"When he danced with me tonight, I—" Arya lapsed back into silence, still unable to look up. "He said it could be us. No one outside of our families even knows the king wanted to make a match between him and Sansa, and he says he doesn't want to anymore. I think he spoke to him about it. Sansa hasn't even told Jeyne Poole because she's so ashamed—"

"Sansa," Jon began, "has wanted an epic love since she was a little girl, full of brave knights who'd give her wreaths of roses and princes who would fight to the death over her hand in marriage. And now, Lady Catelyn and Father had a discussion with the king to marry her off to a recently legitimized bastard who spent more time in the forge than the castle and who never gave her a passing glance, and who kissed _you_ today in the godswood, who danced with _you_ all night, and only you. It was only one measly conversation that they probably never would have agreed to anyway, but it was enough."

"Sansa needs to grow up and stop thinking life is a fairy tale," Arya grumbled

"She isn't wrong for wanting someone to love only her, especially her husband. I'm always on your side, Arya, but how you feel about just the idea of Gendry marrying someone else is how she feels thinking of marrying someone who prefers her sister."

Arya didn't respond for a long while, thinking of how it must make Sansa feel knowing that she'd finally lost to Arya on something, but that was a terrible thought to have, especially when Arya had rejected Gendry twice in one day. Jon kept his hands in hers, waiting for her to speak, but more minutes passed with no reply.

"Do you want to be Gendry's wife?" he asked.

Arya lifted her gaze up to him, her eyes bright with tears. "I would make…a terrible lady," she whispered.

It wasn't the answer to his question, but he found one hidden between the words nonetheless.

"You'd make a terrible wife for anyone except him," Jon told her. "Not because neither of you is fit to run a kingdom—in fact, I truly believe the opposite, but because if either of you were to be with anyone besides each other, you'd both be so terribly miserable, you'd end up flinging yourselves off the highest tower you could find."

"I'd never kill myself over a man," Arya said defensively, drawing her hands away from Jon.

"Nor should you. Forgive me for speaking metaphorically when you're in such a state. But do you really consider Gendry to be just another man to be grouped in along with everyone else?"

She had no answer to offer up, but Jon knew she'd formed one already.

( O O O )

She could have waited until morning, but Arya rarely did what most would consider rational.

"You can't marry Sansa," Arya announced, flinging the door wide open to find Gendry seated at a small table in the corner of the room, a quill firmly gripped in his hand, lines of frustration digging into his forehead.

"Arya—" He quickly stood up, facing her as he clenched the paper he'd been writing in his fist.

"I don't want you to marry Sansa," she clarified. "And if it's not her, it'll be one of the Tyrell girls or a Frey, a Karstark, or gods forbid, even Jeyne Poole. Unless." Arya brought her hands up to her mouth, slowly approaching Gendry, her nerves slowing her down with each step she took but she eventually made it there, right in front of him. "Unless we go to my father, tell him that there's another match to be made. I know your father will think it's fate, that a Stark will finally marry a Baratheon and right some history he believed screwed him over, but I don't care. I don't give a fuck what he thinks it might mean, it has to do with us, _only us_ , and what we want. You were right, before. Earlier, when you kissed me, I'm sorry for hitting you. And at the dinner, I just…you were right. You shouldn't be with anyone else, and neither should I, and it's stupid to think otherwise, or else we'll just make ourselves so miserable we'll fling ourselves off the highest tower we can find."

Gendry's lips parted, his face softening with each word of her speech. She had planned nothing, only bid Jon goodnight before rushing him out of her chambers and slamming the door shut, panic seizing her as she threw on a pair of shoes and raced back out, not stopping to think, only knowing where she had to go and fast. She had been so scared that if she had waited for even a second longer, she'd end up missing Gendry and the next time she saw him, it would be at his wedding to someone who wasn't her. Whatever she had said, it must have been good enough, because the way Gendry was looking at her now…it was better than the feeling she'd gotten when he'd kissed her, when he'd told her she was beautiful, when he'd asked her if it would please her to not marry anyone but her.

"I didn't figure you would ever kill yourself over a man," he whispered.

"I wouldn't! It's stupid Jon and his metaphors and—" Arya stopped, closing her eyes. "You're not just a man, Gendry. You're mine, lord or bastard or smith, I don't care. I never have, even before I felt anything for you."

"And you?" he asked. "Are you mine?"

Arya stared up at him, marveling at how he stood almost a foot taller than her, eyebrows drawn together. Natural instinct and mere memory at being called someone else's called out to her to retch and kick him, but her brain and her heart knew better. She knew that to belong to Gendry would bring her more freedom than she'd ever been granted before. He didn't mean it to draw her to him and never let her out of the suffocating circle of his arms, the way his father had wanted to do with Lyanna. He meant it the same way she did—not to shackle her to him, or him to her, but to be bound together, as equals.

"Yes. Wholly, undeniably yours."

( O O O )

"Congratulations on your engagement."

Arya knows Sansa's voice when she hears it and she's even more familiar with the voice of a lady that she's been perfecting since childhood. The way she expresses her congratulations sounds like a strange mix of both, with something like regret or sadness wedged between the words.

"Thank you." Arya continues to pack her trunk, taking extra care to fold Needle into a thick layer of paper before placing it at the bottom. She had a sheath to protect the sword, but she wanted to protect the sheath just as badly.

"When do you leave for Storm's End?"

"Next week."

"And you're packing now? That's more punctual than I've ever seen you."

In the month that had passed between Arya's discussion with her parents about marrying Gendry, she had barely seen Sansa. She'd heard through Robb (Arya smirked to herself as she thought of Robb as someone who had somehow turned into her own personal Master of Whispers) that talks of an engagement to Willas Tyrell had begun and they were getting more serious every day, but physical contact with her sister had been limited to mealtimes, where she now proudly placed herself next to Gendry.

She chose not to answer, not sure if Sansa meant it as a jab or a joke, and focused on folding a pair of breeches into the trunk.

"Arya," Sansa said, her voice suddenly more serious.

Arya turned to face her, her eyebrows raised. "Yes?"

Sansa seemed at a loss for a minute, her eyes searching her sister's face and looking as if she finally realized she didn't really know Arya at all. "I'm terribly sorry for causing you pain the past few months," she settled on.

"The past few months?" Arya repeated. "What about everything else that came before? You can insult me however you like, I'll respond in kind, believe me, I will, but to be told that the king wanted to marry you to the person I...I _love_ , though I hadn't yet realized it, and to have you reject him for being a bastard is..." She shook her head. "It's shameful."

"It's not because he's a bastard," Sansa said. "Or, well, he _was_ a bastard. He'd never love me, not compared to you."

"What must it be like, to be compared to one's sister and come out as the least favorable option?" Arya asked, her tone tinged with bitterness and a challenge that Sansa couldn't quite rise up to. "I didn't believe Gendry when he called me beautiful, the first time. He's said it many times, and it's still hard to hear it. When King Robert called my Aunt Lyanna's ghost, I thought the circumstances of her death had lessened her beauty, which is why I wasn't pretty like she was. The first time Jeyne Poole called me Arya Horseface, I ran to the stables and I stayed there for hours because I thought it's where you wanted me." There was pain written clearly across Sansa's face, pity and sympathy that she didn't want.

Nor, Arya slowly realized, did she need it.

Not anymore.

"I won't act like I didn't play my part in how our relationship has turned out. But you have to understand what it must have felt like, to be forced to sit still and do everything you so clearly _loved_ , with your friends, and when I shared something _I_ wanted to do, I was teased and laughed at." Arya shrugged as if it didn't bother her. She knew something like that never really would stop bothering her, but she could stop leaning all of her insecurities on it, letting them fester and grow. "I do forgive you. You're my sister, and I hope you'll accept my apology just the same for reacting so harshly when I was met with criticism, even when you weren't the one who delivered it. Every time I was corrected, all I could think was how I was being compared to you, but we've both wronged the other. Let's not waste our time thinking who wronged the other more. I've played mean jokes and you've cut me deeper than I'll ever allow you to see, but we're sisters all the same."

"Is that all there can ever be?" Sansa asked. "Just sisters? Never trust, friendship, companionship?"

Arya paused, looking at Sansa unflinchingly while she thought it over before answering as honestly as she could.

"I don't know yet."

( O O O )

"When did you first realize you loved me?" Arya asked, leaning against the weirwood tree as she crossed one ankle over the other.

"I don't know," Gendry replied simply.

"Stupid, you have to tell me," Arya argued. "I'll be your _wife_ soon. I have to know these things."

When she said the word _wife_ , Gendry couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "When did you first realize _you_ loved _me_?" he countered.

Arya fell silent as she thought it over for a few minutes, eventually coming to terms that there was no specific time. She'd fallen in love with Gendry slowly, over days and weeks and months and years, a friendship that had steadily built itself into something more without either of them realizing it until they were both far too deep. She could pick out hundreds of memories where she considered him handsome, or times when he'd taken her breath away or made her laugh so hard she'd cry, but to choose a single one of them and declare that the defining moment of the love they had would betray the exact thing that made them so special.

"Oh," she whispered.

Gendry smirked at her. "Exactly."

She looked around the godswood, thinking that soon, she wouldn't be here for a long time. She knew she'd travel North again—Gendry would never keep her from her family, and despite the fact that her family would travel for _her_ , she had Winterfell in her blood. She could make a place for herself in Storm's End, as long as she had someone to help her do it, and she didn't want to be rooted to Winterfell forever and never move forward, but it would always be the place she called her _home_.

"Why haven't you kissed me again?" she asked.

Gendry startled at the question, blushing bright red. "I-I didn't know if..."

"If I wanted you to?" Arya scoffed. "If I didn't want you to, I wouldn't have accepted your proposal, idiot."

"You didn't, in the beginning," he said quietly.

Arya paused, narrowing her eyes at him. "I do...love you. I don't regret saying yes to you."

Gendry met her eyes and surged forward, kissing her deeply. She responded in kind, still fumbling over what she was supposed to do, but Gendry put a hand in her hair and gently guided her. They kissed like that for several minutes, each time they parted for breath drawing them closer together the next time they kissed. By the time he pulled away and pressed his forehead to hers, they were both breathing heavily.

"We're in the godswood," he said. "We can't do that here."

"Would you prefer we do it somewhere else?" she asked coyly, unsure of what she was even suggesting but knowing that she loved it when he practically turned purple.

" _Arya_ —"

"I want to get married here," she said suddenly, kissing him again quickly. "My faith has always belonged to the old gods. It wouldn't feel right if I promised to be yours under a faith that I didn't believe in. We can do it again under the Seven, I don't mind, really, but—"

This time, Gendry kissed her to get her to shut up. "I'd be honored," he breathed against her lips, "to marry you in front of the old gods."

That night, when Robb agrees to give her away so Ned can officiate, when she sees the way Catelyn's eyes glisten before she even reaches the heart tree, when she hears the way her father's voice trembles as he asks who comes to claim her, when she sees not even a single shred of doubt on Gendry's face as he declares to be hers, Arya thinks that the honor is hers.

( O O O )

Gendry is incredibly gentle with her as he lays her down on the bed. "Do you want to?" he asks her as he settled atop her, his hand brushing a few pieces of hair away from her cheek. "I don't mind waiting until you're more...comfortable."

Arya rolls her eyes. "I want to," she assures him, reaching up to put a gentle hand on the side of his neck, her thumb coming up to stroke along his jaw. "I'm very happy right now."

Pride filled Gendry's face as he moved his hand down to her hip and slowly lifts the hem of her dress. "I'm very happy right now as well. And incredibly in love with you."

She blushes. "I love you, too," she says softly.

He leans down to kiss her and their lips meet the way they fight—intensely, meaningfully, a deeper purpose driving all of their actions. He gets her dress off and she helps unlace his breeches, all the while trying to keep their lips attached and getting irrationally annoyed when they have to part. By the time they get down to their small clothes, he's slightly red in the face while Arya tries to keep her eyes on him, refusing to let any embarrassment ruin this moment. The way Gendry looks at Arya while she lays beneath him, her hair spread out across the pillow, her eyes locked determinedly on his...she shudders slightly.

"Are you cold?" he asks in a hushed voice.

She shook her head. "Not at all. I'm very comfortable right where I am. Might be a bit too warm, though. Too many layers." There's a smirk threatening to quirk her lips upwards, and Gendry indulges her in grinning back, kissing her once more just because he could.

She responds by kicking her leg up around his hip and rolling them over, not blind to the fact that he probably let her do it. She's quick, and she's strong for how slight her frame is, but he's much stronger than she is. It's the furthest thing from her mind, though, when she adjusts her hips against his and he immediately grabs at her waist. Arya smiles down at him, loving how much he looked like be belonged to _her_ at this moment.

She wonders if he thought the same when she was beneath him.

She really hopes he did.

It doesn't take much time to rid themselves of the rest of their layers, and by the time she's back on her back, there's nothing left to do but kiss him through the discomfort she feels and allow herself to feel whatever she can right now. Years of riding her horse the way ladies were so often advised against helped with a lack of bleeding, but it was still unfamiliar, still unusual and extremely uncomfortable in the beginning. It slowly gives way to something better, something she starts to enjoy. Most of her pleasure is brought from seeing the way Gendry reacts to her, his eyes falling shut but immediately opening, searching for her even as she's wrapped around him. His hands are everywhere, and she knows the first time won't bring her much pleasure, she'd listened to Septa Mordane well enough, but this is Gendry, and he'd always done whatever he could to make her happy.

Any place he can touch her to make her gasp against his lips is a place he returns to, and when she moans involuntarily under his touch, he looks down at her in complete wonder. It's as if he can't believe he made her do that.

They move together, completely in sync as they have been for most of their lives, and when he comes apart, she's there to hold him, kiss him, do her best to respond in kind. His hand doesn't leave hers the whole time, his chest rising rapidly with heavy breaths. "I love you," he repeats, kissing her forehead before moving downwards.

Arya jerks up, lifting her head and looking at him with wide eyes. "Where are you going?" she asks, panicked.

Gendry laughs softly and tries to push her back down with a firm hand on her hips. "Trying to make sure you enjoy your wedding night."

"I've married you; I'd say I've enjoyed it well enough."

His face softens so much, love displayed so clearly that Arya almost forgets what he's trying to do.

"I won't leave my wife wanting," he says, and before Arya can open her mouth to argue, Gendry does something with his mouth that she'd be an absolute idiot to fight off.

They lay next to each other when they're tired, cleaned up and dressed in proper nightclothes. He plays with her hair. She thinks about how different her life had been a few months ago.

"It'll get better," he promises. "With practice."

Arya rolls her eyes. "Practice?" she repeats.

He grins at her. "Practice. Lots and lots of practice."

It takes another round or two before they eventually get the hang of it, but even when Arya finally breaks while she's sitting on his lap, his back pressed against the headboard of their bed— _their bed_ , even if it won't be for long, even if they're going to Storm's End soon—as he supports her, they find the strength for more.

And everything outside their room is stripped away until it's just the two of them.

( O O O )

Catelyn smooths Arya's hair out of her face and presses a kiss to her forehead. "You'll be alright, won't you?" she asked, unable to filter out the worry.

Arya smiles shakily. "I don't know," she says. "But I think I'll be okay."

Storm's End was beautiful in the same way Winterfell was. It was vast and sturdy, something most people looked upon with fear, but the stability of it made Arya feel safe. Like she was home.

It wasn't her home yet, but she could make it one. She'd come here already with half her home promised to her forever.

After her official wedding to Gendry Baratheon upon their arrival in Storm's End, her family was finally preparing to return to Winterfell. Everyone except Sansa, who was readying to make the journey to Highgarden. Sansa, who sat on the bed quietly and observed her mother and sister together as they said their goodbyes.

Arya met her eyes over Catelyn's shoulder and for a long moment, they simply looked at each other before Arya offered her a small smile and a single, subtle nod. Sansa returned both.

After hugging her mother, she approached Sansa. "You'll write from Highgarden, won't you?" she asked. "I don't know how boring it'll be, being a lady. I'll need something to read to pass time." She gave her a short hug. "Be safe on your journey."

Neither knew whether they could ever call themselves best friends, but there had been a point of civility reached that Arya was reluctant to retreat from. It wasn't exactly peace, but it was something, and something would be enough for her for now.

By the time the last of her family's carriages and horses disappeared from sight, Gendry had appeared behind her where she stood at the window, watching them go. "Are you alright?" he asked wearily.

Arya knew why he was concerned. Even after they'd married here, the presence of her family had kept the reality of it all from coming down upon her. Once they were gone, Winterfell was gone with them, and Arya didn't know when she'd visit again.

But that didn't mean never.

She turned in his arms and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I'm yours," she told him. "And you're mine. Are you not?"

The look he gave her was one of honesty. "Yours." He kissed her softly, pressing his forehead to hers. "I do believe I can make you quite happy, Arya."

Arya smiled. "I do believe you've already made me quite happy."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reaching the end of this fic, I really appreciate it. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, it was a day-long nonstop writing frenzy that made me so happy to remember why I enjoyed writing Arya and Gendry so much :)
> 
> I'm ariastarke on tumblr


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